Funny Boy
by narooks
Summary: "It had seemed alright to want this, to think about it with an almost cheery wistfulness. If he couldn't do anything else, couldn't he die for her?" Character death


He had all these fanciful ideas about what to do, when and if the time came. He'd sputter at her breast, fingers tangled up in her hair like birds in trees, caught up in her heartbeat and all her undivided attention. And wouldn't be nice, to watch her wandering blue eyes settle on him, for once?

He had this speech prepared, these long, longing sentences full of stuttering syllables and rusty vowels. He had even practiced at nighttime, in front of the bathroom mirror, hands gripping the basin in the dark (_I lov—no, no, I ador—no, that's not right_). It had seemed alright to want this, to think about it with an almost cheery wistfulness. If he couldn't do anything else, couldn't he die for her?

It's only now, with the kali sticks hitting him hard in the back, that he realizes what a child he has been. Death is not some kind keeper who will give him a few moments in her arms to prove his love. And how could he die for her, if it means he'll never again see Korra ablaze, Korra the monster, the beautiful monster standing up, drawing forth light and rush, Korra bashful and heavy-lidded, Korra and Mako, his two favorites, bickering like schoolchildren, Korra showing up one day with flowers and dumplings because _hey, you like these, don't you?_

Ah, he didn't count on this. Well, his plans were never much good, but did it have to be like this, this painful? Even while dying, Bolin can't help but wish the old reaper had chosen to be a little sweeter to him. This is wrecking him, splitting through pink flesh and soft bone, driving all the thought and silly courage from him and these are the last things that come to him_—hey Bolin, Bo, good morning, a swift smile, a touch, blue, maybe I could be part of a family again, maybe with you—no no not not not yet can't go please not yet not before I can see_

Mako screams his brother's name, running and tripping; he pulls Bolin's head onto his lap, his hands brushing over the body, trying to find where the pain is, trying to fix him up (_can you kiss it better, Mako? Like Mommy used to?_ _Little Bolin, plaintively sticking out a bruised elbow, crying in fits and bursts_).

"Bolin, no, _no_! Bo!"

It's the nickname that alerts her, a call Korra would recognize anywhere. Somehow it is that word that reminds her of her responsibilities to a pair of bright boys (and one very particular bright boy). She turns and sees several things at once. The first is Mako, hands shaking, smoothing out Bolin's collar, trying to wipe away the blood. The second is not an image but a feeling really, a numbness that starts in her gut and explodes upwards…_Bolin?_

She stands over him, a wayward infant coming across a broken toy, a burned forest, a dead bird. She's not used to this treatment from him, she's too accustomed to his answering breath of laughter, this green-eyed funny boy. She waits patiently for Bolin to open his eyes and smirk (_got you guys good, didn't I_). But why is he so still? Bolin, who is all movement and spunk from dawn to dusk, Bolin who will swing-dance with her at two in the morning if that will take her mind off things, Bolin who pokes her and winks and asks _what's wrong, pretty girl?_

Her hand moves to his cheek, touching him sloppily, and the warmth of his skin hits her like a blow. How could he be so _warm—_

_—__this is the warmth I have fed off for so long—_

"Bo," she says now, and it is not so much directed at him as it is at herself, "Bo," and it is not so much his name as it is a realization, a discovery like a shift in the light, a temple in the desert after days of sickness, a discovery like suddenly moving a hand across a face and knowing that you love this boy, this funny boy, that you have loved this dead boy for a long time.

She used to think these things were all spitfire and want, vicious and violent, a tight grip on a slender arm, love that opened you up and stole from you, rubbed you raw. But she had never known real need until this gentle, messy-haired child showed up, all quick, dipping laughs and no worries, helping her stand up, this boy she never took a shot on but who so freely took a shot for her.

Korra sits, knuckles pressed to the skin underneath his jaw_—want to hear a joke, Korra, I promise it's a good one—_unable to look but wanting to feel all the warmth he has left, however selfish, however cruel it may be. She bends down to press her lips to his until the air changes, the moment passes, the warmth disappears, and she knows for sure then, he is gone.


End file.
